


Synthetic X: ROPE

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Series: Synthetic [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Daddy Issues, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8419480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: Dean and Sam. The calm before the storm. Sort of sex. Brothers...





	

Synthetic X: ROPE  
Kitty Fisher

Dean leans against the door, forehead pressed to smooth wood while his fingers turn the locks and clumsily fasten the chain. He keeps very still, watching the metal links swing and shiver, while all his awareness is of Sam. Of when Sam stops cursing, and when he pauses in the pacing that’s been taking him from one side of the room to the other and back, finally bringing him to stand behind Dean, close enough to flatten him more tightly into the door. Dean shifts, presses his cheek to the wood, and feels Sam’s breath, jaggedly erratic, against his skin.

“I should have said no.”

“Sam, don’t. This is better.”

“But the priest! Dean, I saw –”

“No, you didn’t...” Really. “Hey, it’ll be fine.” Dean almost laughs, but stops himself in time, though the feeling remains, and he wonders if it’s more hysteria than amusement. Not that he’ll admit anything but confidence. Not to Sam. Not now. “I’m good at this.”

“Man…” There’s a catch in Sam’s voice.

“And come on, Dad might be a manipulative bastard, but he’s still Dad.”

“Just barely.” The deep sigh slides, warm and slightly damp, across Dean’s neck. “You’re right. I just hate the idea of you going off, doing fuck knows what, without me.”

He leans in, all height and solidity, smelling of _Sam_ , and Dean shivers. It feels as if there’s a thread of need working its way through his limbs, a thread drawn by a fine needle, working up from synapse to nerve, vein to artery, leaving him raw with wanting. Eyes half-closed, he’s remote from everything except the rise and fall of Sam’s ribs, the skim of breath over skin. He knows Sam wants him. Right now. And that Sam probably hates himself, because even if his arousal is prompted by jealousy, or possessiveness, it stems also from the idea of what Dean is going to be doing.

Which is fine, for Dean knows himself to be just as fucked-up. He doesn’t want to go to the priest. He’ll go, get it done. But before that? Hell, it might be three kinds of sick, but he’s hard, and there’s nothing he wants more in the world than to be kneeling. For Sam.

Then he closes his eyes completely, screwing them shut, because sure, he wants Sam. That’s a given. But what he wants, right now, is Sam’s _mark_ on him. The idea of being hurt by Sam almost makes him moan out loud, and Sam had to have felt the jolt of wanting that made him shudder, pressed between Sam’s warmth and the cool, smooth door.

Very carefully, Dean moves. He raises his hands and slides them behind his neck, interlocking the fingers, stiffening his spine, spreading his legs just another inch apart.

Hell, he might as well have sent up flares, because there’s no need for words. Sam just hisses, and his hips cant forward in involuntary reaction.

“Dean…”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, shit.” Sam’s shaking his head, the fine ends of his hair teasing the backs of Dean’s hands, and his neck where his T-shirt dips. “Man, I want you… you have no idea how much. But…”

“Sir. Please?”

When Sam’s lips brush across his knuckles, Dean shivers. When Sam’s tongue works its way slowly across the same skin, he moans, leaning hard into the door, afraid that he’ll just fall. The thread of desire has run all the way through him, and it’s pulled so tight that he’s compressed, drawn up with a need he has absolutely no words to express. All he can do is beg… “Please…”

Sam lifts his own hands, and traces a finger from Dean’s elbows, along the line of his forearms, ending at his wrists, closing his hands there, circling the flesh and bone, holding, then easing the locked fingers apart, tugging out and down, shifting them to the small of Dean’s back, holding them there, at ease, the position opening Dean’s chest, straightening his spine, hardening his cock.

“Right now? I feel like I’m no better than Dad in nearly every fucking way. If I let myself, I could hurt you, so badly. I look at you like this, and I want to fuck you and bruise you – mark you as mine, for the whole motherfucking world to see. Especially that bastard of a priest. So when you go to him, he’ll look at your body and know it’s on loan, that it belongs to someone else and that you’ll never be anything more than a momentary pleasure for him – and that he sucks that up and hopefully chokes on it. Ah, fuck it, Dean… I’m hard, right now, just from thinking about it!”

Vision shivering from scarlet to gray to gold, Dean lets his head fall, signaling submission in every line, every muscle, every thought. Because if Sam doesn’t fuck him, he’ll scream, there’s so much tension in him, so much desperate want and need and, deep down, fear as well.

Sam groans, the sound conflicted, frustrated. Lost.

He stands away, and he guides Dean, turning him around with the gentlest of touches - there, brushing the curve of Dean’s shoulder, and there, a caress at the point where a sleeve pulls tight over bicep, and again, there, a finger lingering over the eager press of nipple against cotton. A finger on his collarbone pushes down, and Dean slowly sinks to his knees, letting himself be as graceful as he’s ever been taught to be, and far more than he’s ever cared for, before now. Now, when he’s offering himself, utterly without qualm or restriction. 

For at this moment, he’d let Sam do anything. Take anything from him, or for him. There’s no sanity in how he’s responding, simply a perfect understanding that this is what he is, and what he’s always been meant to be.

Somehow, that knowledge shows in his eyes. Or maybe Sam really can read his mind, because Sam crouches down, hands lifting to hold Dean’s face, thumbs and fingertips pressing in, gripping tight as Sam leans in, with lips already parted, to kiss Dean’s mouth so hungrily that Dean sways, his own desperation answering, like something clawing its way up from his gut. Dean opens himself, almost choking as Sam fucks his tongue deep into his mouth, possessive and angry. Sam’s so aroused he’s shaking, the fine tremors of his body rippling through his muscles and bleeding into Dean until they’re both kneeling, groin slammed against groin and grinding together, cocks caught in tight cotton, metal zippers snagging painfully, the slam of heat against heat enough as, without another touch, Sam comes. First and hardest, his groan sucked deep into Dean’s throat as, helplessly, Dean follows, sliding into orgasm, and the kiss is nothing but two open mouths, panting against each other.

Sam moves first.

“Jesus.”

Dean nods, blinking past the aftershocks that spark flashes of light behind his eyes.

“Dean. It’s not enough.”

No. It’s not. Dean wonders if anything ever will be. He licks sweat from his upper lip, and nods, spreading his thighs and simply _offering_ himself, in the only way he knows how, with absolute submission.

“Dean…” Sam kisses him, gently, dragging his lips across Dean’s, leaving behind the taste of sweat as he shifts, first onto the balls of his feet before standing. “Wait.”

Of course. 

The thread of need has faded a little, but not in any necessary or important way. It’s not even as if his cock has decided that one orgasm is enough, thank you, because he’s still hard, not stiff, but thick enough for his glans to be pressing into the coldly damp patch that darkens the denim over his crotch. Not that he really _thinks_ about any of that, but the awareness is there, at the back of his mind, while the rest of him is consumed with where Sam is and what Sam is doing.

Sam walks back into Dean’s line of sight, naked. Long body that should be lanky but isn’t, the muscle definition so fine and his body so perfectly proportioned that from a distance you’d never guess quite how tall he is. The strength, that you really only see without clothes. Without the layers that Sam uses to disguise himself, to hide under, in exactly the opposite way from how Dean uses layers to bulk himself up.

There’s a coil of thin rope hanging from his fingers, and he holds it loosely at his side as he comes to stand just in front of where Dean kneels. There’s a moment when Dean almost leans forward to kiss the thick, mushroom head of Sam’s cock, to lick at the drying patches of spunk that are flaking from his half-softening length, but he stays still, merely swallowing the saliva that fills his mouth, the response wholly Pavlovian, and just as wholly perfect.

“Stand up and get your clothes off.”

Stumbling to his feet, Dean lets the room reel around him as he forces his hands apart, and reaches for the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it up and over his head, tossing it away as he starts on his jeans. Button, zipper, cloth pulling at his cock, peeling painfully away to scrape down his thighs. No underwear, he’d dressed too fast. No shoes or socks. He kicks the denim away and stands, naked, his cock rising slowly until it’s almost rigid against his quivering stomach muscles.

Sam nods. Steps in close, so he’s looking into Dean’s face. “Look at me.”

With a sharply expelled breath, Dean obeys.

“I’m not going to fuck you. Whatever he’s going to…well, it’ll only make it worse, because, hell, I can’t promise to go easy, not right now, not when every part of me wants to just _take_ – not as punishment, but as _proof_. You understand, don’t you? Yes, yes, of course. But God help me, I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to hurt you just enough, and it’ll feel so good, Dean. So good...”

Dean nods, though there’s no smoothness to the movement, and feels himself sway towards Sam, as if every cell in his body is saying _yes_ and _now_ and if Sam wants, he’ll be on the floor crawling for this. The image is so strong in his head that he can feel a moan trapped in his throat, like something alive, something separate from himself and composed entirely of _please_. Every please and begging word he’s ever uttered but never meant, there, on offer, given freely and willingly to Sam. Though he can’t speak it, can only offer it in silence and trust Sam to _know_.

“Shhhh…” The hand holding the rope lifts and soft coils trail over Dean’s thigh, across the jut of hipbone and up, to dangle close to belly and cock, snaking down to fall heavily around his balls, and all the while Sam’s staring into Dean’s eyes and their heat could melt iron, or make oceans burn. “Tell me, have you ever come, just from pain?”

Breath catches around the lump in his throat, and Dean doesn’t even have to nod, for Sam just looks at him, and starts to move his hand up, the rope dragging with it, scoring like fire over skin already raw with anticipation.

“Thought so. Was that what they wanted? Is that what Dad trained into you? You can answer.”

Can he? Dean’s not so sure. But he tries anyway, though when he does, even to himself he sounds like a stranger. “No. It just happened. At first, it was easier, getting off on it. Then it made everything good. Like a test where I got it right.”

“Yeah, I get that. Dean, what I don’t get is why I feel like this. Shit, I never wanted to hurt anyone in my life – not humans, anyway. Demons don’t count. Besides, I never got off on that.” He’s talking softly, as if mesmerized by Dean’s reaction as the rope slowly drags back and forth across skin. Whereas Dean can only stand fast, panting, hoping that he won’t be asked to think anything, answer anything, because he’s not sure he has the ability. “Are we insane? Us, the Winchester family. Is it some sort of weird genetic abnormality that goes along with all the supernatural shit? Dean, I want you – all of you. Body, mind, soul, everything that makes up Dean Winchester, I want to have everything, Dean. And when I hurt you,” a thumbnail scrapes hard over Dean’s skin, pressing deep over his nipple until he gasps, spine snapping into an arch that offers _more_ and craves for _harder_ , “and you react like that? It’s like I never felt anything so completely. Not before this.”

Dean nods at the wonder and confusion in Sam’s voice. He understands. Can’t voice it, or word it, or do anything but feel it. And offer himself. “Please, sir…”

“No words.” And he doesn’t need them anyway, for Sam smiles, and bends to mouth the nipple he’s been scraping his nail against. Mouth it, and suck it hard, teeth abrading the tightly puckered skin. A lick, a kiss and Sam straightens. “Turn around, hands behind your back, wrists together.”

Dean obeys, and stands quietly serene while Sam binds him. He’s been tied by inept hands, and by skilled ones. Sam’s are quick, adept, careful. Probably more capable than many, just because of their childhood lessons. Though their Dad had really been interested in showing them how to immobilize someone for other reasons than sex. And Dean thinks that thought, then wonders about it, about it’s veracity, though when the rope is cinched about his biceps and pulled tight, he stops thinking about anything but the now.

Guided to the bed, he climbs up, and with Sam’s hands pushing him into place, he kneels, the stretch in his arms already making his muscles burn. He tugs, speculatively, but the rope around his wrists bites tight, and he knows there’ll be marks circling there, with more around his upper arms. The thought is sweet, and he allows himself another moment of struggle, before he stills, and Sam pushes him down once again, to lie flat, face turned to one side, cock buried helplessly against the comforter.

When Sam lays himself over Dean’s body, Dean groans. Hands hold onto his shoulders, and he takes Sam’s weight, his fingers curling back, cupping Sam’s balls where they fall into his palms, rubbing gently, squeezing the testes from side to side until Sam’s squirming on top of him, and Dean grins, wide-mouthed, squirming back himself even as the air’s being pressed from his lungs.

He almost cries out when Sam moves, but the heavy body doesn’t go away – it just shifts back and down, wriggling until Sam’s face is pressed to Dean’s ass, his knees pushing Dean’s legs wide apart.

The first lick makes Dean jerk into the bed. The second lifts his hips and grinds his cock against the covers.

“Dean, keep still.”

Which isn’t easy, not with Sam’s tongue burrowing up and in and tracing wet patterns that might be words, or spells or simply the alphabet in Cyrillic: they mean both so much and so little, because the tongue’s opening him and _sweet fucking heaven_ Sam’s good at this. Dean wonders if he’ll come again, regardless of when or how he’s meant to, as he’s already blind; eyes wide open yet seeing nothing apart from the dark red intensity of pleasure.

Until Sam just pulls away, lips smacking wetly as he chides, “Oh, no. Not yet.”

Dean can hear the smile in Sam’s voice. Just for good measure he humps the bed – earns a good, hard slap on his rump. Which makes him grin too. Wildly. And if this was what Sam meant by hurting him, fuck he was right, because shit, he’s close, so close, and what he really wants is to be fucked, right now. Even though he knows Sam won’t. Which is right. Yes, yes it is, despite either of their _wanting_. But…

A hand curls around his skull. Immediately, he stills.

Sam’s moved, so he’s kneeling at Dean’s side, where Dean can see the spread of his thighs, cock lifting, throbbing with every heartbeat, his balls drawn tight, shifting around as Dean watches. Which he does, almost salivating, until Sam brings his hand into Dean’s field of vision, then all he can see is another length of rope in Sam’s fingers. Doubled, long and flexible, not heavy enough to break skin but thin enough to…

He shudders. Once. Dry-mouthed, almost panting.

“Yeah, I thought so.” Sam lifts his hand higher, shows off the rope as it trails, perfectly obedient, flicking up at the twitch of his wrist. “Get your knees under you, keep your legs apart.”

Awkwardly, Dean pushes his thighs up, keeping his forehead pressed down as he lifts his ass and spreads wide, the angle weights his shoulders forward, his bound arms pulling tight, rope scoring into his skin. A touch tilts him a little more, lifting his hips up and making his belly arch inward, until his whole body is taut, every muscle humming with tension.

Sam slides a finger across Dean’s lips. Teases them open, lets Dean suck for a moment before adding a second. “Make them wet…”

Obedient, Dean licks, slicking his tongue around the long fingers and the boniness of knuckles. When the skin is shiny, Sam pulls his hand away, and shifts, the bed rocking as he moves, as he gets into position, one hand already sliding between Dean’s ass-cheeks, pushing one finger past the spasming muscle. He holds it there, deep, his other fingers a fan that curls around Dean’s flesh while the slight stretch is sweet as anything, the possession of the gesture as close to sublime as Dean can imagine.

And then he brings the rope down across Dean’s side. Hard.

The pain is like ice. Cold and pure and clear. A line around his flank that sears, and snaps his head back, mouth open wide, silent, held balanced on the finest of all perfect moments. Until the next snap of rope – and then there’s no single moment, just the blur of pleasure, gift-wrapped in pain.

He comes back when the whipping stops. There’s a haziness to his thoughts, and when Sam carefully pulls his finger free of the clutch of Dean’s body, Dean can’t help but whimper. The kiss that brushes his side, where the skin is hottest and the welts are already lifting, floods his senses. The added layer of feeling, like a spear ripping through his nerves. Sweat sticks his face to the synthetic fabric that covers the bed, and he presses his cheek deeper, breath thundering in his ears, his cock streaming pre-come, his whole being focused on Sam, moving around the bed, his hand touching a quivering muscle here, a drop of sweat there, until he’s at Dean’s other side, and the whip cracks again, across his ass this time, welting deep in the meat of his buttocks, thrashing him hard and fast, until Sam’s grunting too with each stroke and his other hand grips the bindings around Dean’s wrists and pulls up, the racking pain enough to make Dean cry out, just once, the sound strangled by the torque on his throat, muffled by the bed.

There’s a scramble of movement, and Sam’s kneeling in front of him, lifting Dean’s head, and Sam’s cock is filling his mouth, filling his _throat_ and Sam’s coming, hard, moaning at each spurt of come that slams out to fill Dean’s mouth and senses until he’s choking, gasping, tasting, feeling, wanting, _being_ nothing but there, for Sam. Being Sam’s.

Sam falls, sideways, his cock pulling from Dean’s mouth as he curls, heaving breath into his lungs. He lies still for a moment, and Dean thinks he might start screaming soon, except Sam moves, shifts up and onto his knees, his hands reaching to untie the ropes that bind Dean, fumbling only a little with the tightened knots before they give. The strands fall away, and Dean’s arms follow, numb. He’s shivering as Sam turns him over, lays him flat on the bed and kisses his stomach. The brush of lips a fleeting contact, for almost immediately Sam is gone again, and Dean’s clutching rumpled covers, whimpering as his skin burns and his cock pulses helplessly with every beat of his heart, until Sam’s back, one hand slick with lube.

“Open wide.”

Not his mouth, his thighs. And Dean obeys, gasps as slick fingers press deep into him, and Sam’s mouth takes away every particle of thought as it swallows him whole, sucking one, twice and then he’s arching up, heels pushing at the bed as he comes, shuddering, held in the cradle of Sam’s mouth and hands, kept there long after his mind has wiped-out into nothing, and he curls, close to insensible, in the circle of Sam’s arms.

:::

Afterwards, Sam washes him, careful of every inch of skin. He kisses Dean’s wrists, and rests his head on Dean’s shoulder, standing under the water for a long time, until there’s no time left at all, and they have to dry off, get dressed. Dean climbs into his clothes, eyes half-closing at every drag of cotton on sensitized skin. He’s marked, claimed. Content beyond anything he’s really ever imagined. He’ll go to the priest, and it really will be nothing. Not now that he has Sam. And Sam has him.

The knock at the door finds them holding each other. Just holding. And when Dean steps away to open the door, he simply looks his father in the eye, and smiles.

Fin X


End file.
